Hmm. I’m definitely not turning out to be one of those “Oh, I just loved being pregnant!” kind of moms. I have back pain. I have a permanently stuffy nose. I get really cranky when I’m hungry, and I have an uncontrollable urge to buy baby stuff. (Lots of super cute, totally adorable, ridiculously expensive baby stuff, naturally.) I’m feeling really fat, I’m starting to waddle, and I can’t watch Animal Planet because the commercials for homeless puppies send me into tears and sniffle fits. Not to mention that I can’t sleep, I have to pee every two seconds, and several other inconvenient and/or uncomfortable complaints that are simply not polite to discuss here. Soon I’m going to get seriously grumpy, because my most recent screening test — one of many that our sympathetic-yet-practical caretakers subject us preggers chicks to regularly — shows that I may have gestational diabetes. The good news: it’s highly likely that I don’t. The bad news: the next test, to either confirm or eliminate the possibility, involves drinking the equivalent of a two liter bottle of extra-sweet, flat orange soda and having blood drawn four times in three hours. Major ick. (I hate orange soda, and I have teensy, highly uncooperative veins.) The really bad news: if the test is positive, I’m looking at a brand new diet that most definitely does not include many of my favorite things, all of which include massive doses of sugar. Bye, bye, pumpkin pie. No more delicious chocolate fudge tidbits or Snickerdoodles or vanilla malted milkshakes. No fun, none at all. On the bright side, the baby is going to be a soccer superstar, judging by the many acrobatic spins and kicks and other movements he manages. (Either that or I’ll be giving birth to a bouncing baby octopus, but hey, at least there are some fun things happening.) I’ve discovered that chivalry and good manners are suddenly much more prevalant if you’re pregnant, and the bigger you get, the kinder people become. (A big thank you to all the men and women who allow us beached whales to go through doors ahead of them, take the only available seat in a waiting room, or offer to help carry heavy items.) And there is light at the end of the tunnel. Just a few more months to go, and I’ll be back on the coffee, wine, and chocolate bandwagon. And when junior is in the throes of his first ear infection and I’m dealing with looming deadlines and zero sleep, I’ll probably look back on these days fondly. Will I say that I loved being pregnant? Well, let’s just wait and see.